


Oilbath

by vienn_peridot



Series: Angelus Primus [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angel!Ratchet, Bathing/Washing, Massage, Other, Primus is a little shit, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet tries to have a nice quiet soak.<br/>Primus decides it's time for his Avatar and newest Prime to be introduced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [a pretty pretty Ratchet](http://adhesivesandscrap.tumblr.com/post/106290374176/pidntsmoh-heheheh-hehehh-omg-no-i-want-to) on Tumblr and an Angel!Ratchet AU happened.  
> Oops.

#  Chapter One

****

It was an extremely quiet night aboard the lost Light.

Not only was it the ‘dead’ time of the evening when mecha were either on shift or recharging, those few who were still awake were currently entranced by one of Rewind’s Movie Nights. Tonight’s offering was apparently the kind of sordid drama that all of them had been starved of during the war; making it _extremely_ unlikely that anyone attending would leave before the Movie Night was over.

With Ambulon on duty in Medbay and First Aid a dedicated member of Rewind’s regular crowd, Ratchet figured that if all went well he would have the largest oilbath all to himself for two or three joors of glorious peace and quiet.

Just to be on the safe side, Ratchet locked the doors behind him.

He didn’t use anything special that would upset anyone, namely Ultra Magnus. But even the standard locking sequence would give him a little warning if someone was about to interrupt his rare chance for relaxation.

It was rare simply because he’d lost the knack for it by now.

After Med School, working for a Prime while simultaneously running a drop-in clinic in the worst part of Rodion before going straight into six million years of nonstop war wounds, Ratchet simply didn’t know how to _not_ be busy anymore.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d realised this.

Once Ambulon and First Aid had caught wind of Ratchet’s plans for the evening they’d sworn that only complete and utter ship-wrecking disaster would get them to disturb him.

Matter of fact, Ambulon had practically kicked Ratchet out of the Medbay the astroseconds his shift ended!

He didn’t doubt their capabilities as medics in the slightest, especially not after what he’d seen from First Aid on Messatine. It was just that old habits die hard, _especially_ when you were used to being the only trained Medic around. It was extremely good to have more medics around, even if they had started to gang up on him to make sure that he finished his shifts on time.

A pulse of pride filled Ratchet’s EM Field, even though he was alone in the communal baths.

_Pushy little Pitspawn, the pair of them_. _They’re going to go far._

Ratchet tossed his drying cloth onto a low bench and took a moment to soak in the peace and quiet of the deserted oilbaths. He preferred to come here when it was like this. _Especially_ after last time when Tailgate had asked him why in Primus’ name Ratchet bothered with a _drying cloth_ instead of sitting on the benches to chat and drip-dry like everyone else.

The grade of oil that was commonly used in oilbaths felt disturbingly similar to the vital bodily fluids of your friends and comrades as it dripped from your plating. After serving through the longest civil war in Cybertronian history and spending it up to your elbow and shoulder joints in the guts of other mecha as they leaked all over you.. There were some activities and sensations that would never be benign again.

His explanation hadn’t been as blunt as usual, his words were carefully chosen with consideration of who else had been in the room at the time, but he’d still successfully killed the conversation and made everyone present _incredibly_ uncomfortable.

With that in mind, Ratchet grabbed his drying cloth from the bench and left it next to the edge of the largest pool before carefully sliding into gently steaming oil. A blissful groan that was more engine than vocaliser escaped him as the oil surrounded him. He allowed his legs to flex, sinking right up to his chinplate before stopping.

_Oh, this is goooood._

The heat penetrated through armour and protoform, right down to his struts. Thermal expansion forced tight cables and tension wires to relax that little bit which enough for autonomics to take over and complete the process.

Before Ratchet turned into a completely lax pile of metal he shuffled over to the edge of the large pool. Optics barely powered on, he located one of the shelves recessed into the side by touch and folded his forearms into it, easing his weight onto them slowly. When he was sure he wouldn’t slip, his chinplate came to rest on his folded forearms, the rest of his frame to trailing belly-down into the depths of the pool.

His faceplates safely out of the oil, Ratchet sealed off all vents below the surface and the redirected his systems to keep from overheating, letting his optics fade offline as lazy contentment seeped into him along. The thin oil of the pool trickled slowly through gaps between armour plating which he habitually held close to his frame, easing more tension from him.

Continually secured armour was a sign of chronic stress, according to Swerve and Rung.

According to _Ratchet_ it was a sign of another overbearing idiot hell-bent on mollycoddling him into an early deactivation.

Grumbling, Ratchet deliberately flared his armour to allow the oil better access to his protoform, as if proving something to the non-existent audience.

_So what? I_ can _do it if I want to._

He floated for a long while in a half-doze, engine purring softly in the room that was otherwise as silent as a room on a spaceship could be. The sound of his systems blended with those of the ship and for a while he was content.

Then an unexpected twinge from his upper back brought him snarling back to full awareness.

_Aggravating slagging things._

His chronometer showed that Ratchet had only been here for about half a joor. If nobody had come in yet there were good odds that he would remain undisturbed until Rewind’s little group of movie-watchers finished for the evening.

_Why not? The sound of the lock will give me enough warning, anyway._

Decision made, Ratchet initiated the transformation sequence that would unfold his large, complex sensory wings from their recessed hiding place in the armoured compartment of his upper back. The instant they had fully unfurled to float half-supported the CMO felt a wave of almost unnaturally strong relaxation overwhelm him.

Ratchet couldn’t pinpoint the source of the feeling to figure out if it was pure sensory gratification from the hot oil soothing the compressed circuitry of his wings or from another source altogether. He gave up trying to figure it out as a strained tension wire suddenly eased, drawing a low moan of relief from his vocaliser.

The source of the feeling really wasn’t all _that_ important. What was more important was enjoying every single astrosecond of this rare opportunity for pure self-indulgence.

Ratchet sank so deeply into the pure contentment suffusing his frame that he completely failed to hear the door chime announcing that someone had entered the unlock code.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock knock, who's there?

# Chapter Two

There was a weird feeling in his spark again.

He'd felt this several times before. It always seemed to happen when things could go _spectacularly_ wrong and yet he somehow _just_ managed to beat the odds and scrape through.

The two stand-out events in his processor were when the Lost Light had made that earlier-than-planned exit from Cybertronian space, and later on when he’d held that Sparkeater up against the engine blocks and told Perceptor to engage the quantum drives.

Given _that_ , it was probably a good idea to just roll with this new weird feeling and do whatever it was prodding him to do.

So Rodimus found himself wandering down the quiet corridors of the Lost Light when he should have been recharging, heading vaguely towards the communal bathing area. He wasn’t at all dirty _and_ his finish was perfectly adequate, so it was only the weird pressure on his spark that switched annoyingly between prodding and tugging that had him up and about. All things considered, he’d definitely much rather be deep in recharge under the cozy pile of heating tarps occupying his berth.

_This had better be life-and-death or I’m_ not _going to be happy._

The odd feeling blithely ignored Rodimus’ annoyance and led him past the washracks and right up to the door of the communal oilbaths, where it stopped and he had the feeling of something just… watching him.

A blinking red light distracted the speedster. It was coming from the keypad beside the pool-room door.

Rodimus frowned at it.

The door was locked.

Lock doors mean Do Not Disturb.

_Oh well, that’s that then. Too bad; so sad._

Looks like it was back to berth for good little Captains everywhere.

Feeling smug, Rodimus was turning on his heel to leave when the weird being-watched feeling strengthened, accompanied by the sound of an unfamiliar transformation sequence from inside the bathing room.

Someone was in there.

Someone who had a _seriously_ weird-sounding transformation sequence.

Not even stopping to think, Rodimus pulled his EM Field tight to his frame and unlocked the door with a Command override, slipping inside as soon as it had opened wide enough for his frame. The door closed completely unnoticed as Rodimus stared in blank astonishment at the mech filling the largest of the communal pools, not noticing that the strange feeling in his Spark had suddenly vanished.

It wasn’t the _mech_ filling the pool that had his attention; it was the large sensory appendages sprouting from the mech’s upper back.

They looked like an artist had taken the wings of an Earth bird, streamlined the design concept and then translated them from organic materials into the physiological building stuffs of a Cybertronian.

The result was spark-stoppingly _gorgeous_.

_Slag, that’s an Avatar of Primus!_

The winglike limbs emerged from beneath red armour panels which shielded the complicated jointing where they integrated with the mystery mech’s upper back and - OhPrimus they actually _glowed_. Rodimus couldn’t tell if it was large-scale biolighting or the product of some kind of iridophore or bioluminescent nanite layer, and he honestly didn’t care. He just wanted to stand and stare. And maybe touch if he was allowed. From the way the individual ‘feathers’ moved they appeared to be individually articulated in some horribly complicated way probably only Ratchet would be able to understand.

The mech in the pool hadn’t reacted to his entrance so Rodimus took full advantage of his chance to ogle without interruption. The wing-things were obviously _very_ thinly plated if they were even armoured at all and they’d have to be _extremely_ sensor dense and therefore hidden a lot if he’d never seen them before.

Slag, his spoiler could be painful enough if he got dumped on his back the wrong way. Rodimus didn’t even want to _imagine_ what it would be like to have limbs that big and fragile-looking without the ability to fold them safely out of harm’s way.

The long, featherlike panels flexed and twitched as they floated half-supported by the heated oil of the pool and Rodimus figured they probably got a bit cramped from being hidden away all the time. His fingers practically itched with the desire to touch. Maybe he could offer to give the mech a hand with getting rid of some of the aches?

Wondering if that was a possibility, Rodimus finally forced his optics away from the wings and to the rest of the mech beyond them to discover the identity of their owner.

No. Slagging. Way.

It was Ratchet

_Ratchet_ was an Avatar of Primus.

 “ _Ratchet?!_ ” He just couldn’t stay silent, shock and disbelief at the mech’s identity spilling over into his voice and EM Field.

The medic in the pool yelped in surprise, snapping from complete and total relaxation to combat mode in a single sparkbeat. Ratchet lurched to his pedes, spinning to face Rodimus with his large wings held high in a threat display, his armour plates rippling defensive subroutines tried to decide between protecting delicate internal mechanisms and making the mech appear larger to intimidate the intruder.

Captain and CMO stared at each other in confusion, the only sounds in the room the whirring of Ratchet’s battle-ready systems and the soft splashing of the deep amber-coloured oil as it ran from his wing panels to drop back into the pool. His blocky frame was vibrating with tension and Rodimus felt suddenly guilty for interrupting the notorious workaholic’s rare time-out. He forced himself to maintain optic contact with the irate mech standing up to his chestplates in hot oil.

“What the slag do you think you’re _doing_ , Rodimus? The door was _locked!_ ” Ratchet demanded, the oil around him shivering as his engine snarled.

“Uh, my spark made me do it?” Rodimus offered lamely, shuffling his pedes against the deckplates. “I got this weird feeling again and it kinda made me come _here_. I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything”

“… _Again_.” Ratchet sounded resigned, his wings relaxing slightly behind him.

“Yeah, again. Last time it happened was when I had that Sparkeater up against the engine block, so I figured it was a good idea to find out what was up.” Rodimus explained, determinedly _not_ looking at the pale glow of Ratchet’s wings. “Since it’s not, you know, anything _dangerous_ I can go. Let you get back to your soak.”

Ratchet pinched his nasal ridge and bowed his head, muttering something under his breath. When his hand moved again the expression it revealed was pained, as if he’d suddenly developed a processor ache.

“So, uh, I’ll just go and leave you in peace, ok?” Rodimus said, edging towards the door.

He did NOT want a pissed-off Ratchet on his case. _Doubly_ so now he knew what Ratchet was. Another annoying jolt at Rodimus’ spark didn’t stop him. It could do whatever the slag it liked. _Nothing_ was worse than a pissed-off Ratchet.

“Just lock that door properly and get your aft back here.” Ratchet sounded resigned. “We obviously need to have a talk about this and we can do it while I get some of the aches out of these blasted things.”

To illustrate what he meant, Ratchet gave his wings a little shake before finally lowering them from their aggressive position and folding them neatly against his backplates. The movement hypnotised Rodimus, fixing him in place. The neat sweeps of overlapping plating rising behind Ratchet had a swoopy sort of otherworldly look completely at odds with the blocky build typical of Medic frametypes.

_So. Cool._

A raised optical ridge reminded the speedster that he’d been asked to do something.

“Uh, right. Sure. Ok.”

Rodimus did as he was asked; locking the door with a sneaky little code Ultra Magnus would have fits over and hurrying back to sit on the edge of the pool beside Ratchet, dangling his lower legs and pedes in the oil.

Ratchet was once again leaning his forearms on the edge of the pool but his air of relaxation was gone. His EM Field expressed nothing but weary irritation when Rodimus brushed his own against it in cautious apology.

“So how long have you been getting ‘weird feelings’ in your spark?” Ratchet asked.

It was almost surreal to be asked such a normal question by Ratchet while the CMO sprawled out in the pool, soaking up the heat with his wings –the indisputable mark of an Avatar of Primus- on full display. It took Rodimus’ processors a moment or two to come up with the answer. The way Ratchet’s wings shifted and twitched was extremely distracting and made it harder than normal to hunt through his memory banks for the answer.

“Since the first time I picked up the Matrix, or just a bit before.” The Captain eventually said, his optics tracking every movement of Ratchet's fascinatingly complex wings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WING RUBBIES

# Chapter Three

“Since the first time I picked up the Matrix, or just a bit before.” Rodimus said, blatantly ogling Ratchet’s wings as he let them soak in the oil.

Ratchet pondered this for a klick, letting the younger mech get the staring out of his system. The individual panels that made up Ratchet’s wings twitched in response to his discomfort at the close scrutiny, which _really_ didn’t help. Rodimus’ optics tracked each tremor with turbohawk intensity.

_Here it comes._

“Have you always had those?” Rodimus blurted, unable to contain himself.

“Yes, I have.” Ratchet wanted nothing more than for this to be a dream. “They fold away into the ‘kibble’ on my upper back.”

To illustrate what he meant, Ratchet wiggled the red-enamelled rerebraces that provided some protection for his wings. Rodimus’ optics cycled wide and his faceplates took on the look of a vorn-old sparkling faced with something shiny.

_He’s going to ask to touch them, next._

“So... You’ve always been an Avatar of Primus, then?” Rodimus asked instead.

_Huh. More self-control that I would have given him credit for. Kid’s learning._

“Yup.”

“And nobody’s supposed to know?”

“That’s the _idea_ , yes.” Ratchet sighed. “Unfortunately for me, that planet-sized slagger has a sense of humour.”

To the medic’s eternal surprise, Rodimus made a rude noise, obviously agreeing with his statement. Ratchet raised an optical ridge at him, silently amused. He nudged at Rodimus’ EM Field with a silent request for more information.

“Yeah. I’ve noticed.” The speedster studied the wall moodily for a while before his optics were once again drawn back to Ratchet’s wings. “Do you need a hand cleaning them or anything? I wouldn’t mind helping you, so long as you figured out something to tell Magnus about why we’re suddenly all buddy-buddy.”

_Ah,_ there _it is._

“I don’t have them out often enough for them to get too dirty, but I’ll keep the offer in mind.” Ratchet said dryly.

Rodimus’ crestfallen look was almost funny. Ratchet didn’t even need the impression of an impatient growl he received from elsewhere in order to make the Captain an alternative offer.

“They _do_ cramp up if I can’t get a good stretch in very often,” Ratchet said conversationally. “And sometimes they decide to ache for no reason.” He snorted. “They’re probably just getting old, like the rest of me.”

He stretched his wings out into the pool and fanned the individual slats, enjoying the slide of the oil and the heat that soaked in and soothed some of the microfine tension wires that had gotten bent out of shape. Rough patches caught and dragged unpleasantly against each other, but the oil helped ease the slide. Hopefully his autorepair in combination with the oil pool would fix them up.

Rodimus was completely transfixed by the way the unfamiliar limbs moved, mouthplates slightly parted in a rather silly way.

“I wouldn’t mind a massage now, if you had some time free.” Ratchet said, bringing Rodimus back from whatever little fairyland he’d gotten lost in.

The red-and-gold mech’s faceplates lit up and he almost wriggled, looking _exactly_ like the human saying ‘all his Christmases come at once’. Rodimus slid into the pool and waded carefully up behind Ratchet, who flared his wings slowly out to the sides so the speedster could stand between them. One particularly nasty _scrrrrp_ of uneven plating at the overlap of two sensor flaps had Ratchet snarling silently into his forearms.

_Slag, I’m usually better at not snagging myself like that._

“Where do they get sorest, Ratchet?” Rodimus asked, distracting the medic.

Ratchet could feel the younger mech’s EM Field prickling against his own with nervousness, the faintest brush of air followed where Rodimus’ hands were probably hovering over the complex plating of the wings. It was almost – _almost_ \- cute the way the normally confident and self-assured mech was suddenly reluctant to touch what he’d probably been devouring with his optics since the moment he entered the room. Ratchet wasn’t a vain mech, but he still got a little ego boost from that.

Standard Medical frames like his own were anything but attractive, but he _was_ justifiably proud of his wings.

_Being stuck on a frame like mine probably makes them look even_ better _than they normally would._

“If you start with the main joints I’ll let you know of anywhere else once you’ve got them sorted out.” Ratchet said, rolling his shoulders forward and arching his upper back to bare the main shoulder joints.

“Sounds like a plan.” Rodimus sounded more like his cocky self as he started to carefully tend to Ratchet’s aching wings.

He was surprisingly gentle, starting out with the lightest touch he was capable of and waiting for feedback before pressing more firmly to free up overtightened joints and smoothing out the more severely crimped lines. Every now and then he ran a gentle finger across some of the rough patches but refrained from saying anything, apparently content to explore.

Before Rodimus was even halfway through sorting out the worst of the vorns-old aches Ratchet was a purring, happy lump of mech sprawled out in total relaxation. Rodimus’ engine rumbled happily as the medic’s EM Field emptied of stress for the first time in their acquaintance. Ratchet willingly allowed the social layers of his Field to mesh with Rodimus’ while he aimed a pointed little thought at the presence that had played silly buggers with his evening.

_You’ve got a twisted sense of humour, but you_ do _have a few good ideas every now and then._

Ratchet got the distinct feeling that if Primus currently possessed functional optics he would have been rolling them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing with this AU.  
> Many thanks to the wonderful people who have already donated plotbunnies ^.^ They shall be put to work when they're old enough to enter the fic-mines :p


End file.
